


Mel Brooks Will Make It All Better

by lisacali



Category: Donald Strachey Mysteries (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-02
Updated: 2013-10-02
Packaged: 2017-12-28 04:43:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/987797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lisacali/pseuds/lisacali
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Timmy cries in front of Donald.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mel Brooks Will Make It All Better

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a 'First Time' challenge on LJ's 'Nick-n-Nora.'

“Let me help you with the dishes, Donald.”

“Absolutely not.” Donald took Mrs. Callahan’s plate from her. “You sit and visit.”

“I’m so sorry dinner ended up being take-out, Mother,” Timmy apologized for the third time. “I have all the ingredients here for –“

“Don’t worry about it, Timothy,” Congressman Callahan assured his son. “I haven’t had Thai food in years. It was delicious.”

“I understand how work can intrude on personal time,” his mother added, looking pointedly at her husband.

“And you knew it going in,” he answered.

“Yes, I did. When I took my wedding vows I should have said, ‘I take you, Robert, and all your constituents.’ Mrs. Callahan looked around. “You’ve got this apartment looking very nice, boys. It seems much bigger without all the moving boxes.”

“Thank you, Mother, we’ve tried.”

“You mean you’ve tried,” Donald said from the kitchen. He stuck his head around the wall separating the two small rooms. “It’s been all him. If you had ever seen my old place you’d be surprised he’d even let me live with him.” Donald looked at Timmy. “That’s your cue to say ‘oh, honey, don’t be ridiculous’ or something along those lines.”

Timmy simply smiled and said nothing.

“Brat,” Donald muttered and went back to rinsing the dishes.

“Donald, if you won’t let me help you clean up, I insist on getting dessert ready.” Mrs. Callahan joined him in the kitchen.

Timmy rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “It’s been far too long since I’ve had your homemade apple pie, Mother.”

“I’m just glad I had time to make it. Your father only found out he’d be coming to Albany yesterday morning.”

“I’m just sorry you can’t stay a little longer. Can’t the people of Connecticut do without you for another night?”

“Afraid not,” answered his father. “And speaking of work, how have things been going for you, Donald?” he asked toward the kitchen. “Any interesting cases?”

“Not lately. Just doing what I can to pay the bills.”

“How about you, Timothy? You’ve only got a couple weeks left at your job. Have you given any thought to that position I told you about?”

Donald, who was following Mrs. Callahan with dessert, shot a look of surprise at Timmy - this was the first he’d heard about a job offer.

The Congressman noticed. “You haven’t mentioned it to Donald? A place with McCleery and Jensen is quite coveted. And it would come with a substantial salary.”

“Substantial? How substantial?” Donald asked, taking his seat.

“It doesn’t matter, darling. That PR firm is owned by the Republican Party. I’m not interested.”

“Still playing that tune, are you?”

“Father, we’ve talked about this, and I really don’t think this is the time or place to be going over it all again.” Timmy was maintaining a forced politeness, but Donald could tell he was becoming upset. He wasn’t feeling too great himself, knowing what was inevitably going to happen.

“So, what are your plans then? I know you and Donald want a house – and I don’t think a private detective’s sporadic paycheck and unemployment are going to swing that.”

“Robert, please. Can’t we just enjoy this time together?” Mrs. Callahan implored.

“I want to know what my son is going to do with his life! He’s a good PR man and he’s leaving a decent job. I’d like to know what his next step is.”

Donald and Timmy exchanged a look; Donald smiled half-heartedly, trying to convey more encouragement than he felt. Timmy reached over and squeezed his hand in gratitude. Donald hunched over his plate, pretending he was invisible.

Timothy took a deep breath, drew himself up, lifted his chin, and announced, “Next month I’m taking a job as a personal aide for Senator Glassman.”

Donald’s eyes traveled the table, waiting for everyone’s reaction.

“A Senator’s aide! That’s wonderful, darling!” Mrs. Callahan beamed at her son.

“Wonderful? The woman is a Democrat, Linda!” Congressman Callahan had gone red in the face.

“I realize that, Robert. It’s still a good job.”

He ignored her, not taking his eyes off his son. “I cannot believe, after being raised in my house, that you would consider taking a job like that!”

“And I cannot believe, after knowing me for the past ten years, that you can’t believe it!”

Donald was carefully watching the men face off across the table. Timmy had avoided telling his father about the job for this very reason and it was turning out to be as bad as they both had feared.

“You know how I feel about those people!”

Timmy’s hands slammed onto the table and he jumped to his feet, knocking his chair over. Donald opened his mouth to say, he didn’t know what, when he caught Mrs. Callahan’s eye across the table. Her lips were pursed and she was shaking her head. Donald understood – let them deal with it. His natural impulse was to jump in and help Timmy defend himself but she was right; this was between father and son.

“Those people! Those people!” Timmy was madder than Donald had ever seen him. “You sound like a bigot! The wedge dividing the two greatest political parties in this country is growing bigger every day and will continue to do so with attitudes like that!”

The senior Callahan seemed near apoplectic. “You have a problem with *my* attitude?” he sputtered.

Timmy was shaking his head, looking bewildered. “You and mother were so understanding, so supportive of me when I told you I was gay.” He was shouting now. “I don’t understand why this has to be any different!”

“I’m not an idiot, Timothy Callahan,” the Congressman practically snarled. “I know you didn’t choose to be a homosexual but you sure as hell are choosing to be a Democrat! Linda, we’re leaving.”

Mrs. Callahan got to her feet. “Let’s just take a minute, please, Robert.”

But her husband was already out the door.

Timmy’s mother went to him and gave him a long hug. “Give him some time, darling. He just has to realize this isn’t personal. I’m very proud of you.” She went to Donald and kissed him on the cheek, whispering, “You take care of him.”

“Always,” he whispered back.

After she left, Donald righted Timmy’s chair. “Sweetheart, let’s go to bed,” he said, reaching for Timmy’s hand.

Timmy let him hold his hand for a moment before pulling away. “I love you, Donald, but I don’t think I should be around anyone right now.” He went down the hall and disappeared into the small bedroom they had turned into an office.

Donald cleared the table, carefully wrapping foil around Timmy’s untouched slice of pie.

 

Six weeks later…

Donald sat in his car for a few minutes after arriving home, trying to get his attitude adjusted before going inside to Timmy. He’d spent three uneventful days watching a supposed unfaithful husband go to work, then directly home to his suspicious wife. And the woman who had hired him this morning, for a job that promised to be much more interesting and lucrative, had called just an hour ago, saying she had changed her mind and cancelled her check.

Taking a deep breath he got out of the car, chanting the TGIF mantra to himself as he repeatedly slammed the door until it shut.

Inside he made his way to the little office, where he could hear the keyboard clicking away. “Hey, love of my life, how was your day?” Donald went to the computer, resting his hands on Timmy’s shoulders.

Timmy tilted his head for a kiss on the cheek and then went right back to his work. “Fine,” he answered perfunctorily.

Judging by the vibe he was getting, Donald kind of doubted it. “So, you made it through one week, seemingly unscathed.” He picked up the thread of a tongue-in-cheek conversation they’d had last night. “You get any dirt on anyone, maybe someone who can lower our electric bill?”

“No, Donald, I didn’t get any dirt on anyone. The Senator runs a clean office.”

Donald stepped back. “It was a joke. Remember last night?”

Timmy turned to face Donald. “I’m not in a joking mood, especially about my job. I don’t think it’s very funny. I don’t make fun of your job.”

Timmy was being entirely unreasonable, and in retrospect Donald realized he should have known something was wrong. But when his own bad mood came roaring back, he didn’t try to stop it. He’d come home, hoping for a little comfort, an encouraging word or two. Instead, he was getting...this!

“You don’t ever have a comment or two to make about my work? I think you have a little selective amnesia going on there, sweetie. The only difference is that I have enough of a sense of humor not to become a bitch over it!”

Timmy’s eyes widened. “You...you...get out of here!” He turned his back. “I have work to do!”

Donald stormed down the hall to the kitchen; as he stood there, fuming, the immaculate state of the room began irritating him. Timothy could be so anal! Donald took a glass from the cupboard, drank down a splash of milk, and set the glass on the counter...without rinsing it. There!

He stepped out to the end of the hall and yelled, “Have you thought about dinner?”

“Not much!”

“I thought the first person home was supposed to make dinner!”

“I have no idea when you’re going to make it home. I didn’t feel like cooking and then having it just sit there!”

“When have I never called if I’m going to be home after 6:00?”

Timmy’s head poked out of the doorway. “Would it put you out too much to walk the couple steps down here if you want to talk to me so we aren’t shouting like uncivilized baboons?”

“Yes!”

The office door slammed shut. A moment later Donald was in their bedroom, slamming its door.

He looked at the neatly made bed. He wanted to just lie down and turn the T.V. on - loud. But the thought of a shower was too inviting. And by the time he got out, much of his anger and tension and frustration had swirled down the drain. What a stupid fight that had been. He stared at himself in the steamy mirror. “Asshole.”

He wanted to go to Timmy but was afraid they might start up again. Instead, he pulled on some boxers and flopped on the bed and began channel surfing. After a half hour or so his hunger got the better of him; his stomach was making incredible noises as it tried to digest that swallow of milk.

He pulled a t-shirt on and headed toward the kitchen. Noting the office was empty he steeled himself for a possible second round. Seeing the kitchen also empty he went on to the living room. Timmy was there, sitting in the dark.

“Timmy?” he asked tentatively, turning on a small lamp. “You okay?”

Timmy looked over at him and held out his hand. “Truce?”

“Yes!” Donald joined him on the couch, finally getting the hug and kiss he’d looked forward to all day. But there was still the matter of why Timmy had been in such a bad mood. He pulled back and stroked his cheek. “Something happened today, didn’t it?”

Timmy nodded and motioned to the phone, sitting on the coffee table. “I called my parents today to wish them a Happy Anniversary.”

“Okay, and..."

“Mom loved the CDs.”

“Good. How about your dad?” This was the important question. Timothy hadn’t talked to his father since their fight. He’d talked to his mother at least half a dozen times, and she’d always have a reason why his father couln't come to the phone: he wasn’t home; he was already on another line; she even pulled out the old classic – he’s in the shower. The few times Timmy had tried to reach him at his office, his secretary had come up with similar excuses. Timmy wasn’t fooled.

He hadn’t really said anything about it until last week:

“I think my father is avoiding me.”

“Of course not,” had been Donald’s expected, supportive boyfriend reply, “he’s just a hard man to get hold of. Remember when you were trying to reach him that time to find out what your mom wanted for her birthday?”

“I suppose you’re right.” Timmy smiled wanly at Donald’s attempt to comfort him. “I understand having a hard time reaching him. But the thing is,” he said, adjusting his glasses, “why won’t he call me back?”

So now Donald waited anxiously for Timmy’s answer. “I asked my mother point-blank about Dad. She admitted he’s still mad and refuses to talk to me.”

Donald’s gut hurt as he watched Timmy trying to be so brave and stoic. But the effort proved too much. Timmy’s chin began to quiver and his eyes grew bright. “My father hates me, Donald. My own father hates me.”

Donald gripped Timmy’s shoulders, speaking almost sternly to him. “He does not hate you, sweetheart! He’s just mad and over-reacting and being an ass. But he certainly doesn’t hate you. He’s just way too high-strung over this shit.”

Timmy nodded and tried gamely to smile. “I know you’re right, in my head. But...but it hurts, you know? It really, really hurts.” His composure broke completely then – his face crumpled and the tears came.

Donald pulled him close, crooning words that meant nothing and everything, trying to love him enough to make up for what he was losing. Timmy clung to him, his cries coming in harsh, choked sobs, ripping into Donald’s heart until his own eyes grew wet.

Timmy slowly quieted, but the two stayed twined together for several minutes, Donald stroking his lover’s hair and rubbing his back until he had fully calmed down. When they finally parted, Donald rucked up his shirt, using the hem to wipe Timmy’s face.

Timmy tried to push his hand away. “Donald, not your shirt.”

“Why not?” he replied, wiping the tee across Timmy’s cheeks and nose. “I got to be somewhere later wearing this particular shirt?”

“Crazy,” Timmy whispered affectionately. “Wow,” he breathed, “I feel about the consistency of jell-o after that.” He looked a bit nervously at Donald. “Are you freaked out?”

“What, the crying?” Donald shook his head, looking at Timmy like he was the crazy one. “Am I freaked out that you trust me enough to let go like that, to let down your guard completely in front of me? To let me help you when you’re in trouble?” Donald held Timmy’s face in his hands and kissed him gently. “I’m more in love with you than ever, Timothy Callahan.”

“I think I’d cry again but there’s nothing left. I wish I could tell you just how much I love you at this moment, Donald Strachey.” Timmy returned the kiss. “I don’t think I could get through this by myself.”

“You could,” Donald disagreed, “because you’re strong enough, but I’m glad you don’t have to.”

“I just can’t believe it. You know, it’s always been pretty apparent that my father and I aren’t cut from the same cloth, but he has always been supportive of me – unfailingly – until now. And over politics of all things!”

Donald took Timmy’s hand. “Come on, honey, you know how insane politics can make people. He just needs more time.”

“You think so?” Timmy asked hopefully, squeezing Donald’s hand.

“Sure. One of these days he’ll realize how much he misses you and what a dick he’s been and he’ll get your mom to make you an apple pie as a piece offering.”

Timmy smiled at the thought and leaned into Donald, who wrapped an arm around him, holding him for several quiet minutes. The distinctive sound of a growling stomach broke the peaceful moment. “Was that yours or mine?” Timmy asked, sitting up.

"I'm not sure, but I think mine passed growling a while ago. It's moved on to eating itself."

"Oh dear, I'm so sorry I didn't make anything." Timmy patted Donald's tummy sympathetically. "I was being a real jerk earlier, wasn't I?"

"I'd say we were about even. Tell you what - you need to shower?”

Timmy raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know, you tell me.”

“Darling, you’re always delicious to me. But why don’t you go ‘freshen up’ as they like to say, and I’ll make us something to eat.”

By the time Timmy came out, wearing sweat pants and one of Donald’s wife-beaters, Donald had chicken sandwiches and chocolate milkshakes waiting on the coffee table. “And guess what? Young Frankenstein is coming on in seven minutes."

“Perfect.” Timmy smiled.

When they were done eating, they sat cuddled together on the couch until the movie was over. And then Donald took Timmy to bed and made love to him as slowly and as sweetly as he knew how.

And later, when he woke in the early hours of the morning to find Timmy staring, red-eyed, at the ceiling, he wondered just how much trouble he could get into for throttling a United States Congressman.

-end-


End file.
